Jerry Garcia

I remember when Jerry Garcia died and the sidewalk in front of Ben and Jerry’s on Haight Street became a shrine. Candles and crying kids and Friend of the Devil played over and over. A punk rock friend of mine lived next door. After the umpteenth Ripple singalong he couldn’t take it anymore and stormed outside. It’s a fucking ice cream parlor, you idiots! Two hundred red eyed Deadheads looked up at him. It’s OK dude, one said, we’re all upset too, and passed him a joint. He took a hit and relaxed. Someone began singing Friend of Devil. Teary eyed teenage girls asked him if they could stay at his pad. He was a punk rocker in a sea of Deadheads right outside his front door. He fled inside and blasted the U-Men and Mudhoney and the Stooges. Between tracks an endless, droning Sugaree came through the windows. Shake it, shake it, Sugaree they chanted. He finally dozed off as a dozen hippie guitar players on the sidewalk massacred Uncle John’s Band. Sleep was fitful and dreaming. Woke up to teenaged girls knocking on his door. He screamed he wasn’t home.

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